Daughter of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  Margaret paused for effect before driving her point home. “The poor fellow would have a hard time distinguishing who at the English court has not had their way with Mistress Shore.” She was satisfied to see Will wince. “Aye, we hear rumors, too, Lord Hastings—all the way from London.” She arched her brow and dared him to respond.

  Will had clammed up immediately, taken aback that Margaret would refer to his liaison with Elizabeth Shore, the beautiful wife of a merchant, who had also enjoyed Edward’s favors.

  In her deliciously warm bath, Margaret chuckled now, easing her long body into a new position. Her smile turned to a grimace as she remembered Charles demanding that he share her bed that night of Hastings’ visit. Knowing Will’s reputation, perhaps Charles was worried that he might attempt to fondle her, too. She was surprised by her own laugh as she thought back on that ridiculous insinuation. But ’twas true that her whole mood had shifted when she had been certain she was pregnant. Her joy then was unimaginable. The thought of motherhood helped her with the pain of losing touch with Anthony. She had not heard from him for many months, but now she knew he must have been caring for Eliza and, knowing Anthony, he must surely be concerned about his wife, even if he did not love her truly. If she dies, he will be free, she thought resentfully, but I shall not. As one of the most eligible men at the English court, she could not imagine he would remain unmarried for long.

  She slapped the water in frustration, and Fortunata, thinking she was being summoned, appeared at her side. After washing Margaret’s long, wavy hair with saponaria, she combed it, searching for nits, before adding a shine with an infusion of rosemary and nettle.

  “I have said nothing, madonna, but I am certain you are with child,” she whispered in Margaret’s ear, taking a clean piece of lawn and gently drying the heavy tresses.

  Fortunata was not overly fond of bathing, so when Margaret sat up suddenly, sloshing water over the edge of the bath and all over the dwarf, she shrieked and jumped away. Why, the woman is uncanny, Margaret thought. How could she know? But, she admitted, since Fortunata’s life was so wrapped up in hers, it should not have come as a surprise.

  “Do not say a word to anyone, pochina, or ’tis a dungeon and torture for you,” she admonished, and Fortunata smiled and nodded, not believing a word.

  TWO DAYS LATER, Margaret knew something was wrong. An odorous discharge had been soiling her chemise since her bath, and the occasional cramp was becoming more frequent and painful. Dear St. Margaret, she prayed to her namesake and protector of pregnant women, do not let me lose this child. I am near to my twenty-eighth year and still I do not know the pleasure of motherhood. I know I should have stayed and made my solemn vow to Isabella that day, but intercede for me with our sweet Virgin that I not be punished for that omission. I have given gifts to many holy houses in penitence since, and I cannot think I have not atoned for that one little sin.

  She lay on the soft mattress that had been freshly stuffed with down and sweet grasses, trying to sleep and forget the pain in her belly. Eventually the cramping subsided, and she sank into a deep sleep.

  She could smell burning, and then she heard the unmistakable crackling of flames licking wood not far from her. She leapt out of bed, but the floor was red-hot, and so she jumped back onto the bed only to find it was now on fire. A searing pain shot through her body as her nightgown became engulfed in flames, and she heard herself screaming, “Fire! Fire! Help me! Oh, dear God, help me!”

  The curtains around her bed were flung back. Fortunata and Marie were shaking her awake. Margaret’s eyes flew open, and she realized she had been dreaming about the fire at Male again. She looked from Fortunata to Marie with relief until another searing pain made her scream again. This was no dream; it was very real. Flinging back the bedcovers, she saw the telltale red stain between her legs and instinctively knew she was losing the child. She began to sob and put her arms out to Fortunata, who held her close, whispering soft Italian words in her ear.

  “Cara madonna, non ha paura. Eccomi. I am here, do not be afraid.”

  More cramping bent Margaret double, and calling for someone to fetch Doctor Roelandts, Marie set about helping Margaret to the little garderobe. For the next few hours until dawn broke, Margaret’s chamber was a hive of activity. Her ladies took turns with her in the privacy of the tiny space, where she sat on the padded seat of the privy, expelling the precious contents of her womb, while sleepy servants brought in the copper bath and others followed with warm water and armfuls of clean drying cloths. Roelandts and his assistants stood around the bed inspecting the sheet and shaking their heads, waiting for the duchess to return so that they could examine her. Fortunata eyed the lancets and bowls that were being set out for the ritual of fleeming. Surely her mistress had lost enough blood, even though her body humors might indeed need re-establishing.

  “There is too much blood. ’Tis not a good sign,” Roelandts said to Marie, adjusting his hastily donned robe and scratching at his scalp through the sparse gray hair under his nightcap. “Something is wrong. Is this the time for her courses?”

  Marie thought for a second. She was genuinely worried, as she was Margaret’s chief attendant and so should anything happen to her mistress, she could be called to account by Charles. She nodded; she did not want the doctors to think she did not take note of her mistress’s cycles. “Certes, her grace must be with child again.” Then she remembered. “Ah, yes, Ghent,” she muttered. Louder she said, “And perhaps this is a repeat of the first … experience?” she said for want of a better word. “Or,” she suddenly thought, “do you think she is dying?”

  Roelandts rounded on her. “I was not aware the duchess was with child, my lady,” he said testily. “No one sought to inform me. But ’twould appear she is losing it, if that is the case.” He sniffed and stared resentfully at the door of the garderobe. “It appears her grace has no need of me,” he complained. “When you have bathed her and put her to bed, I will send in a tincture and visit her in the morning. Good night, mevrouwe.” Yawning loudly, he bowed to Marie and left the room, followed closely by his colleagues.

  Another hour candle guttered and went out before Margaret, supported by Beatrice, emerged from the garderobe, her face white and her eyes frightened.

  “Where is Doctor Roelandts, Marie?” she asked. “Surely someone sent for him.”

  “Aye, your grace, he was here for a spell, but he decided you did not need him and so he left.” Marie took pleasure in putting Roelandts in a bad light after the Fortunata disaster. She had not forgiven him for bungling the matter and giving her away. Serves him right if he is dismissed, she thought spitefully.

  Margaret was too exhausted to demand his presence again, and she allowed herself to be lowered into the warm bathwater, soft towels protecting her from the hard copper sides. Only Fortunata worried that the warm water might make Margaret’s blood flow faster, but Marie silenced her objection with a hiss and a painful pinch on her arm. But soon the water turned bright pink, and Fortunata hurried forward to insist Margaret be taken out. Blood was still dribbling down her legs and Margaret was so weak she could hardly stand as she was dried. With a bundle of clean rags between her thighs, she was almost carried back to the bed, which had been changed and freshened for her.

  She stayed in the darkened room for two days while the cramps still plagued her. The doctors finally decided her womb was infected and so treated her with a decoction of garlic, burdock, liquorice roots and the expensive powder from a ground unicorn’s horn. Much to Fortunata’s relief, the doctors decided against any bloodletting this time.

  On the eighth day of April, Margaret was transported in a litter to the abbey of Dendermonde, where the Cistercian nuns helped her pray for the soul of her lost child and praise God for her recovery.

  As she lay prostrate in front of the gold-leafed crucifix in the abbey’s stone church, she let her tears flow onto the cold flagstones as she tried to accept what Roelandts had told her.

  “�
��Tis our belief you may be incapable of bearing a child, your grace,” he had said, unable to look her in the eye. “But we should all pray to the Virgin that God is merciful and a miracle may happen.” And he had bowed and fled before he could be dismissed, leaving her with his awful prediction.

  “What is a woman without a child?” she wept. “Have I been so wicked to deserve this?” And try as she may, she could not get the night of sweet but illicit love with Anthony out of her mind.

  IT WAS AN early summer like none she could remember. The heat was already intolerable, and even the thick stone walls at Ten Waele seemed to burn from the inside out. It did not bode well for the harvest that year. Already, in May, the earth was bone dry.

  Charles had invited her to take part in the festival of the order of the Golden Fleece in Valenciennes beginning on the second day of May, and reluctantly she set out with a small entourage, leaving Mary behind in Ghent. Not only did she hate being separated from her stepdaughter but she also missed Jeanne’s company. Guillaume was a dull companion, albeit a loyal and hardworking protector. Even Lord Ravenstein had asked to stay on in Ghent, and Margaret had reluctantly acquiesced.

  After four days of excruciatingly slow progress, some in the litter and some on horseback, and some stilted conversation with Marie de Charny, she called upon William Caxton to ride with her. She decided it was cooler on horseback than in the curtained litter, and she fanned herself with one hand while the other controlled her sturdy palfrey.

  “Tell me of your time in Cologne, Master Caxton. You have learned much, I understand from Fortunata. I regret I have been unable to speak with you of late, but let us make use of this bothersome journey, shall we?” She tightened the ribbon of her wide-brimmed straw hat under her chin and wished she could throw off her clothes and jump in the Escaut River along which they were riding. She could feel beads of perspiration running down her back. Flies were buzzing around her, and she swatted at them with her fan.

  As they passed through a hamlet between Condé and Valenciennes in the province of Hainault, several ragamuffin children ran up to her, begging pitifully. She threw them a few coins and watched as they scrabbled in the dust for them. Guillaume barked an order at one of his sergeants, and several men-at-arms hurried to remove the children from Margaret’s path, but Margaret waved them away. She looked kindly at the dirty little faces that gazed up in awe at her, and William was dismayed to see tears rolling down her cheeks. Why, for all her wealth and power, she is unhappy, he thought. He was not used to displays of emotion and so looked away. He was even more startled by her next statement.

  “I have been told I shall never bear a child, Master Caxton, so forgive me for becoming maudlin when I see one. ’Twas indulgent of me,” she said. “I had no right to discomfit you.”

  William coughed. “Nothing to forgive, your grace. Quite understandable,” he stammered. His embarrassment had been overridden by an intense feeling of respect for this magnificent woman who had humbled herself in front of a mere merchant. “I am at your service always,” he said, giving her a steadfast look. “For anything.”

  Margaret smiled. “I believe you, sir. And now, tell me of the new invention I am hearing so much about. Will you set one up here? I trust you know you have my support in this, providing the first book you print is in English,” she said, chuckling.

  “Aye, your grace, I have spoken with my colleague at St. Donatian’s—where all the scriveners in Bruges are employed, you understand—and we will form a partnership. He is the finest scribe in the land, and I will bring my knowledge of the new machine and my business skills to the enterprise. Your support will guarantee its success, I promise you!”

  “’Tis good news, Master Caxton. Perhaps one day you will return to London and set up a machine there. My brother will be happy to give you his patronage, I am sure. And I can promise you, Lord Scales—I mean Earl Rivers—will be one of your first customers.

  “But come, sir, I cannot be so selfish as to command your intelligent conversation all morning. I believe Fortunata would enjoy your company for a spell.” William was startled once again when Margaret winked at him.

  Grinning, he bowed in his saddle and wheeled his horse round to canter back along the ranks until he found Fortunata riding pillion behind one of Guillaume’s henchmen.

  “Your mistress sent me to entertain you, Fortunata,” he said in English so that the escort would not understand. “I did not tell her you had entertained me all night, little wanton!”

  Margaret heard Fortunata’s merry laughter all the way from the back of the procession, and she smiled.

  DURING THE FIRST ceremony’s feasting, Margaret sat in a room all by herself and was served by the wives of several of the order, including Marie. She listened to the loud laughter of the men in the hall and called to Fortunata to perform some magic tricks for her ladies.

  “Madame de Charny, come quickly,” a page cried, running into the room and seeking out Marie. “Your husband has been taken ill.”

  “Go with him, Marie,” Margaret commanded. “Take him to the ducal apartments and have Charles send his physician to tend him. We will await news here. Go.”

  Marie’s face was pale. She called Guillaume’s wife to go with her, and they hurried out. Henriette was Marie’s pet, Margaret knew, and it had concerned her to see the two women always in each other’s company, whispering behind their hands and sniggering together. She turned to see Fortunata gazing at the disappearing figures and was saddened to see the look of relief on the dwarf’s face. They are unkind to you, my pochina, she realized. How can I stop them? Perhaps if I told Henriette of her husband’s wild nights with Marie, it might put distance between the women. But, certes, I cannot stoop so low, although I would dearly love to rid myself of Marie. I am convinced she has hurt Fortunata, but I have no proof. She gave an audible sigh, and Fortunata came to her side.

  “Are you unwell, madonna?”

  Margaret smiled at the little woman’s cocked head and dark eyes watching her mistress with concern. She shook her head. “Nay, I am merely sleepy,” she said, longing for the seclusion of her downy bed. “It has been a long day.”

  She did not expect Charles that night and so was unprepared when he was suddenly announced. He strode into the room, his head and shoulders stooped as usual, and the ladies dropped to their knees in courtesy. Without Marie there to chastise him, which, as his stepsister, he tolerated, none of Margaret’s ladies dared point out that their mistress was tired and did not want to be disturbed.

  Beatrice stepped forward timidly and opened her mouth, but her fear of the duke was evident in her eyes, and he enjoyed roughly pushing her aside. “Out of my way, English lady,” he snapped. “And the rest of you, get out!” he growled as he approached Margaret, who was sitting on the side of the bed.

  Margaret rose in front of him, and, as always, her height disconcerted him. He turned away and addressed a figure in the tapestry on the wall instead. “I have much to tell you, Margaret, but my time with you here is short. I pray you, give me an hour.” The knowledge that her extra inches rankled with him always cheered her. It was the only time in her life that she thanked God for them. His tone was more conciliatory, Margaret noted, and briefly wondered if he might have a kind word to say for the loss of her child.

  “My duty is all to you, my lord,” she responded, shrugging on her red and black fur-lined bed robe and curtseying briefly. “But I could wish you were more charitable to my ladies. Lady Beatrice is elderly and yet you mistreated her. There was no need.” She walked across the tiled floor to pour wine for him. “Sweet Jesu,” she muttered, as she felt the familiar itch of flea bites on her ankle. The residence was not large, and much of the household was lodged in the town. Margaret had noticed upon her arrival a few days before Charles that the place was less than clean and had admonished her chamberlain to spruce it up before the duke arrived. The fur trim on the hem of all her gowns was no match for the infestation here. In the morning, she would a
sk Fortunata to collect some plantain leaves to rub directly onto the bites. All this flitted through her mind as she concentrated on the task at hand and took Charles a goblet of wine.

  “Come and sit, Charles. ’Twas a long but successful day. I was much moved by the ceremonies—”

  “I came to tell you of Pierre de Bauffremont,” he interrupted, and Margaret immediately felt guilty because she had not asked first.

  She invited him to sit next to her on the settle. “What is the word? I was about to ask.”

  “’Tis serious, Margaret. An apoplexy, so I was told, with a paralysis on his right side,” he said, shaking his head and sitting down. “They dare not move him for a few days. But when they can, I hope you will send both of them back to his estates. I cannot think he will last long, and Marie must be with him.”

  Margaret nodded; her prayer had been answered. Marie would go away! She was elated, but turned somber gray eyes to him. “I am sorry for them both, although he is past seventy-five years, Marie tells me.” She didn’t add that Marie was not kind about her husband and used a limp finger to describe his sexual capabilities. “He has lived a long life.”

  “Aye, and a noble one. His prowess as a jouster was never called into question. I am certain you have been told of the pas d’armes, the tournament he fought during my father’s reign.”

  Margaret quickly interjected, “Certes, she must accompany him home and care for him. I shall go on very well without her, have no fear, Charles. I am not lacking attentive ladies, I can assure you.” Sometimes too attentive, she thought, quaffing her wine to hide her grimace. “I shall have Ravenstein appoint another captain of my guard. You should not worry about me. You have enough to concern yourself with. I do not plan on being … ill again for a long time.” She thought she would give him an opening, but it was not to be. Charles merely grunted. She gritted her teeth into the semblance of a smile. “Where to next, Charles?” She hoped talking about his campaigns would lighten his mood. And it did.